


what you know which is nothing

by WhimperSoldier



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied Relationships, It's really up to you, Jon finds an ice dragon!, guess what he names it!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 17:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19233823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimperSoldier/pseuds/WhimperSoldier
Summary: “I should like to go back to the Wall. Do you think you could take me?” He knew the dragon did not understand, but it could feel his longing, for Sam, and Maester Aemon, who would both love to see a dragon.Slowly, it lowered its shoulder and Jon took his spot between great spikes of ice. Jon slipped into its mind not to control but to feel, just for a moment, what the wind felt like under wings, the way his coiled muscles in his thighs bunched and released and sent him into the air. The bits of snow which stuck to his side as he flew and the feeling of it brush down his flank. The chill of it in his bones giving him strength where there would normally be weakness.I should name you,Jon thought,all the best dragons have names.





	what you know which is nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Does this follow the time line?  
> Kinda  
> Do I care all that much?  
> Not really.
> 
> I just watched The Great Wall and it really kick-started my ideas for these characters so we'll see if any of my other ideas ever make it onto a Google Docs.
> 
> Also, all mistakes are mine and leave any ideas for possible stories in the comments!

Jon was lost. Everything in every direction looked the same wind beaten tundra as the previous mile in all directions. He had been moving towards a small mound for hours now, watching it shoot up from the ice like shards of glass breaking from the ground.

If he could gain a higher vantage point, maybe he could see a camp.

When he finally reached it, he froze. He had been not far from Hardhome, his poorly drawn map had shown so much, but the vast sea that ran out just beyond the jut of the hill was as dark as night and just as foreboding.

The sky had darkened and while he had once hoped that Qhorin Halfhand and his brothers might come back for him, it seemed more likely that they had left him for dead. Perhaps they had decided this before he was separated, even.

He screamed. No one was around to hear it, only him and the vast unending sea that threw a chilled wind in his face. Jon just wanted--something. He didn’t know, recognition, understanding, attention at the very least. Instead he was abandoned by his brothers in unfamiliar territory with no hope of rescue.

For the first time in years, Jon wanted to cry, and then he hated himself for it. Tears would not help him, only freeze to his cheeks and burned his skin when he rubbed them off. 

He turned to the hill. It was taller than he had thought from a distance, easily forty feet high with the spires of ice rising up and making it easy to climb. He might not be able to see his rescue, but he might be able to see something to eat.

Ghost was out there somewhere, but Jon was hesitant to rely on him. This land was sparse enough for the wildlife alone. When he reached the top, the plain he had been walking across gave way to trees for as far as the eye could see. He sighed.

He could keep moving up the coast, take his chances with a fishing line and hope he could convince the wildlings at Hardhome to listen to him before they killed him. 

He moved to get down, carefully placing his foot on a ledge when he heard a violent crack. The ice shifted under his feet and Jon froze, carefully distributing his weight as evenly as possible to avoid cracking. This left him on his side, legs spread. His breathing was heavy and came out in puffs.

His eyes faced down, watching for cracks, when he saw something twitch under the ice.

He leaned forward, mind no longer on the cracks but on what could live under layers of ice. grumpkins and snarks, his father had said, the words sounding almost obscene as he watched an eye snap open under the ice, the pupil as large as a dinner plate and shining with an otherworldly blue glow.

The ice shell shattered with a horrible crash and sent Jon clambering back and away from the spray of ice that was sent up into the air. He uncovered his head from where he had tucked it into his collar.

_Wings,_ , he thought wildly, _those are wings._

The beast-- _a dragon,_ his mind screamed, _an ice dragon of old!--_ shook out its head and sent down a rain of ice that chimed as it shimmered down its back. It looked like a glass statue come to life, with its wings a monstrous size and as clear and rippling as water.

It was off the ground like a bolt, a single shiver down its back and it was airborne, carrying Jon with it. It moved inland before banking hard right and Jon grabbed frantically at the jutting icicles to hang on. One foot slipped and he cried out when his shoulder wedged between an opening, simultaneously keeping him in place and slowly dislocating his shoulder. He tried to stop it but he cried out, and the dragon turned its large head his way.

They met eyes, its wide and deceptively blue like the color of black ice, Jon’s a frightened dark grey. The creature pounded its wings once, then twice, and then they were out to sea. Jon spotted a dark shape burst from the water miles away, an island. He frantically recalled the large map the maester had hung in the library. Skane, the island above Skagos. Impossible.

The cut of the ice helped to keep the wind from his eyes, but even with the wind break, the thick furs did nothing to warm him as the gales smacked his body. He was moving so fast, impossibly fast. This trip would take hours at least, days at most, never minutes.

The coast became smaller and smaller, and Jon watched with wide eyes as it disappeared from view. Inexplicably, he thought of Old Nan’s tales.

Dragons were magical beings, but sometimes clever heroes could reason with magic and if they were very, very lucky, sometimes they might also survive. Sometimes. Rarely.

“Stop!” Jon screamed into the wind. “We need to go back!”

His heart felt like it might beat out of his chest. He couldn’t focus on thoughts with the water whipping by his face, watching large whales surface only for them to disappear a moment later. A dragon of old, he thought, older than him, than the wall, probably older than the Common Tongue, he thought.

He knew few words of the Old Tongue, but stop was blessedly one.

“ _Stupona!_ ” He knew his pronunciation was off, Sansa was always better but hated the way the thick language sounded, but the dragon seemed to recognise the word, slowly twirling around in a show of beauty. The sea spray made the thin membranes of its wings shine like jewels. He did not have the words to explain himself, but he did know one. “ _Heim!_ ”

Jon pointed frantically at the direction they had come from, waving his arms, but the creature only shook out its neck and kept flying.The creature made a chuffing noise in its throat before dipping down and flapping its wings so low it cut into the surf. Jon grunted in annoyance, it was a creature like any other, it couldn’t talk.

_Neither can Ghost,_ he thought. 

He had never done it on purpose, only ever slipped into his wolf’s head when he was sleeping, but he knew what it was and had heard of the power of the wargs among the Wildlings. If they could master it, so could he.

Granted he doubted they had done it on dragonback, but than he had never really talked to a Wildling.

Jon relaxed his grip, slowed his breathing, and ducked his head into the curve of his arm. Reaching out was like touching glass. Ghost felt like snow, cold but forgiving, a promise of pain if left to long, but welcome nonetheless. The dragon’s mind felt as if his whole body had been dumped into the ocean to freeze, as if his blood was thickening in his veins, and his muscles were being torn apart.

The dragon screeched, an echoing horrible sound, like the shattering of ice on stone. Its wings dropped, Jon unfamiliar with the feeling of them where he’d once had arms. Together, their mind a blinding panic, they crashed into the sea.

Its wings flapped ineffectively at the water and while the beast was big enough that they worked like outriggers, Jon was in its head, and could feel its panic and fear echoed back as his own. That fear gave him an opening.

He calmed them both, held his wings out and watched as the waves settled, the pockets of air under the wings slowing their sinking.

Jon came back to himself slowly, as one wakes after a long sleep. His head was pounding and he had slid down from his perch. Icy water had soaked into one of his boots, but his feet remained blessedly dry. He would not lose a foot out here.

The dragon was panicking again, shaking its body and crying out with screeches that rattled his body. Slipping in was easier this time.

He expected the rush of cold, like the wind when they were flying, the ice crystals that dug into his face, but he was prepared. Its mind was not the same as Jon’s or even Ghost’s. Animals were honest creatures with no call for self awareness, but this dragon knew something was wrong, that they were going to die, and like the crumbling of the wall, Jon felt the flex of his wings, the heaviness of his head as it started to sink under the water, he could feel its feet kicking ineffectively trying to keep it afloat, and there--in his stomach, a heaviness, the slosh of liquid and knowing of what it does.

The dragon’s mouth glowed blue and ice crawled across the water, thickening as it moved, bigger and bigger until Jon and the dragon moved as one, hauling themselves onto their ice sheet with exhausted bodies.

Laying there, it was hard to untangle their minds. With eyes as blue as the sky, he could see his body hunched over a spur of ice. As if a string that was suddenly untangled, he sat up, watched himself sit up, and met the dragon’s eyes.

Then he passed out.

He awoke on shore, warm, blocked from the elements by a dragon. He was curled around a single giant paw and a laugh was pulled from his mouth. 

He had ridden a _dragon_!

Jon first thought, shamefully, of his brother. Robb was good and strong, but even he had not ridden a dragon. But Jon had. His second thought was that we would have liked to share this them. Sansa loved the songs of dragon knights, surely she would love a real one too. And Arya, Arya would have killed Jon to know he’d ridden a dragon before she had.

He stood and the dragon raised its huge head and shook out his neck. Jon could feel its question, like a tug in the back of his mind like the connection he shared with Ghost.

“I should like to go back to the Wall. Do you think you could take me?” He knew the dragon did not understand, but it could feel his longing, for Sam, and Maester Aemon, who would both love to see a dragon.

Slowly, it lowered its shoulder and Jon took his spot between great spikes of ice. Jon slipped into its mind not to control but to feel, just for a moment, what the wind felt like under wings, the way his coiled muscles in his thighs bunched and released and sent him into the air. The bits of snow which stuck to his side as he flew and the feeling of it brush down his flank. The chill of it in his bones giving him strength where there would normally be weakness.

_I should name you,_ Jon thought, _all the best dragons have names._

He thought of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters and their dragons. They were not Northerners, and this was an ice dragon of the North, and should have a good strong Northern name.

_Ice,_ he thought, _for my father’s broadsword that was stolen from him_. With it he brought about peace and Jon thought what better weapon to fight Wildlings than a dragon?

Ice seemed to dislike that idea, if that sharp nose dive they dropped into was any indication. Not a weapon then, a reminder. The Wall is protected.

Ice soared upwards, moving above the wall with four powerful beats of her wings. Eastwatch was miles behind them and another maned fort would not be until Castle Black, so the leisurely pace they were making gave Jon the opportunity to feel the stretch of muscles he did not have. Each wing beat made a flutter in his stomach, the power echoing in every pound.

Jon wished sometimes he were as noble as his father, but he was a bastard and Lady Catelyn had always said bastards were spiteful. He would have disagreed with her until the moment he watched Castle Black coming into view and the alarm sound.

As he got closer, he could hear the _plink_ of arrows hitting his chest and tumbling 700 feet down the wall. Ice landed and Jon heard a large sheet of ice crack off and spill down.

“It’s Jon!”

Someone had seen him, and when Ice simply sat there, calmly eyeing them, Jon decided now was the time to dismount. The dragon was too large to fit within the gravel-lined walkway so its wings spilled over both sides, its long tail calmly swinging past the unused trebuchets.

Jon walked past, wanting to get Maester Aemon, but one of his brothers stopped him.

“Are you just going to leave that thing up here, Jon?”

“She won’t bite.” Jon scoffed and thought of the blast of ice out on the ocean.

“That’s what you said about your wolf too, and look at what he did to Ser Allister’s arm.”

~

Aemon was bundled in so many layers Jon feared he might roll right off the wall. He walked slowly, arm tucked into the crook of Maester Aemon’s.

“I’m too old for these games, boy,” Aemon chastised him. The wall was sparse, many of his brothers having chosen to move much farther down the wall. “What is it I must _feel_ on the wall?”

“Reach your hand out, slowly, now brush down.”

Aemon’s fingers reached out and brushed down Ice’s neck. She let out a huff and Aemon gasped. He started tearing at his gloves and when his fingers were finally free, he ran his fingers down the perfectly iridescent scales that in the setting sun looked to be made from rubies.

“It’s a…”

“A dragon, yes. I found it,” Jon felt pride stur in his breast when Ice huffed again and sent a sprinkle of ice crystals down on their heads. Jon laughed when Aemon blinked in confusion. “Ice is not the dragon of your ancestors, but of mine. He looks to be made of glass and ice, and her eyes are as blue as the wall when the sun melts through all the dirt. She shines too.”

Aemon just nodded, quietly stroking Ice as the sun set and the braziers were lit around them by hesitant hands.

~

He meets the wildlings and they laugh at him when he asks of ice dragons while they share fires with giants. 

Wun Wun watched him carefully over the fire after that.

~ 

When they come for him, they do so at night when Ice has flown far over the Wall for food. Only Ollie knew when he let the dragon go hunting.

Their knives are colder than any dragon’s breath.

~ 

He wakes to Ice screaming.

Ghost howls with her, and Jon can feel the beast that sits in the back of his mind rise to meet them. For a single instance he wanted nothing more than to rip and tear and devour those who wronged him, and then he settles back into his bones and calls for his sword.

~ 

Sansa crashes into Jon and as his arms wrapped around her, she felt safe for the first time in months.

It is only after she has settled into the warm den besides Jon’s rooms that night that Sansa realized the men and Wildlings treat Jon differently than they should. She had seen people ruled by fear and manipulation, and even in honor and loyalty with her father, but they do not look at him the way they would look a beloved leader or even a hated one.

They look at him like a god.

~

“I want to show you Ice.”

For one impossible moment, her heart sores and she wondered how he was able to steal their father’s weapon, but then she realizes it is impossible.

But the impossible has become her reality because while one brother was given the head of a wolf, her other was gifted a dragon.

~

“We need not fight.”

Jon is as dower as she remembered but also softer somehow. They see in each other the echoes of a family lost of them.

“They have our _home,_ ” She reached out and grasped his hand. His eyes shot up to meet hers and the pure _want_ in his gaze breaks her iron-clad heart. “We have to take it back.”

“We have no army.”

“How many wildlings did you save?”

“They do not owe me anything,” Dower Jon says as Sansa can see the scars over his heart as his loose shirt slips down turning his chest orange in the firelight.

“They owe you everything, Jon.” She pressed but could see the steel in his jaw. He is a Stark, she reminded herself, steel in their very blood. “Besides, don’t you remember old Nan’s teaching?”

Jon looked up wearily, eyeing the smug turn to her lip. He seemed to like her banter.

“Dragons bow to no one. Not gods. Not men.” She met his eyes over her cup. “And certainly not Boltons.”

~

The Bolton Army is larger than theirs by the thousands. The Free Folk take this as a challenge. They lay out their plan with wooden blocks in the Great Hall on Bear Island and Jon can see in his mind’s eye the death each of them will cause.

Sansa argues for Guerilla warfare and Tormund agrees. He nodded quietly.

“It feels dishonorable,” He met Sansa’s eye over the now empty hall. “It is something father would never do.”

“You need to be smarter than father. Smarter than Robb. We both do.” She moved forward and placed a stern hand on his cheek not in comfort but to drive her point home. “We must survive winter to bring about the summer. You have a choice, either we save our men though strategy or you show the world the North has a dragon.”

Sansa was, as she often was, correct. He thought of Ice, who earlier that week had been startled by a snow hare which had hoped to close to him. He thought of Ramsey’s bow and the Queen Rhaenys Targaryen who’s dragon had been shot down by a clever archer.

Jon had never felt more of a bastard than when he led his armies to attack in the dead of night and never more discouraged when it resulted in the surrendering of two houses and many of Stannis’ remaining men.

When the day comes, Wun Wun holds a shield made of half an oak and a weirwood bow. His shoulder rammed the door open and Jon’s men flooded his childhood home with him at the head.

He beat Ramsey’s face until all he could feel under his fist was meat and the grinding of loose bone. Ice stirred in his mind, rousing from sleep with hunger curling in her gut.

When Sansa’s guard leads Ramsey Bolton away, Jon vomits along the wall where Robb and he had spent hours running dirty cloth over their wooden practice swords and thinking of names to call themselves when they became knights.

~

Sansa is more King in the North than he will ever be. She prepares for winter, helps the smallfolk, settles disagreements with wisdom he does not have. Her choices often become Jon’s choices, she is his closest advisor and while Ser Davos hold the pin, all know who is by Jon’s side at all times.

“We have a dragon!”

“The White Walkers are killed with fire, not ice,” Jon wraps himself in his cloak and runs a gentle hand over the wolf embroidery at the neck. It was not there for show, Sansa had done it as a reminder to him and he had never loved her more. “I shall sail down to Dragonstone--”

“ _Sail?_ ” Sansa said disbelievingly.

“I thought you might be angry but I misjudged about which part,” Jon muttered as Sansa huffed. When she was annoyed she looked, not younger, but her age.

“She will have not one, but three dragons. She will use them to intimidate you. You must show her the North will not bend the knee.”

Sansa reached out and resettled the cloak around his neck so the direwolf was pressed to the soft skin of his throat. Jon knew without words what she meant.

_Be careful._

~

Tyrion expected many things when Jon Snow landed on the dark sand beaches of Dragonstone. He expected the child he left behind at the wall, but was greeted by a man with a back made of iron, holding himself as a king.

Tyrion hoped he wouldn’t regret saying he liked Jon Snow.

“The Bastard of Winterfell.”

“The Dwarf of Casterly Rock.”

Both smiled and Tyrion felt his fear lighten. Jon was reasonable and intelligent in most things. He would see with time that to bend the knee was the best option.

They watched with heavy stomachs as the Northerners were stripped of their armor. Jon’s eyes tracked his sword as it made its was to the pile behind a line of Dothraki.

He made small talk as they climbed the winding stairs to Dragonstone; Sansa, and scars, and the fate of Starks who go too far South.

That’s why it is peculiar when Jon stopped and stilled, looking up. Tyrion had seen Drogon preparing to swoop but when Jon turned to look at him, Drogon pulled up with a screech that shattered the air. Both he and Missandei noted their odd reaction, mostly because they had very little reaction at all. Jon watched them with mouth parted in awe, but Ser Davos seemed wary. Tyrion expected wariness, but Davos seemed not to fear the dragons as those who first met them, with fear of a creature that could devour you, but as one did a weapon you had yet to figure out.

“Little small, aren't they?” A soldier asked and Tyrion had to stop his mouth from dropping. Davos looked to the soldier then back to them.

“In the North they have ice dragons. Lots bigger,” Ser Davos smiled and Tyrion felt the squirming in his gut intensify. There was something he was missing.

~

Dany had been expecting a lot of things from the King in the North. Despite Tyrion’s stories, she had expected an arrogant man who marched into her throne room with demands and who would be awed and humbled by her dragons. Jon Snow proved to be the opposite.

He fought her but with a will that was not led by pride but by honor. It was strange.

Her dragons liked to swarm him, to circle him like they might a whale they wished to kill. This had frightened her at first, she may not like him, but she would not allow him to die at her children’s hands.

Then he faced Drogon.

She, selfishly, had wanted to see the fear on his face as she had seen on the faces of the Lannister men she had killed today. Love bound her allies and fear grounded her enemies. It seemed Jon Snow was neither.

“They’re beautiful aren't they?” Dany asked, watching the gentle sweeping of Drogon’s wings become more distant.

“They’re warm,” Jon muttered, smirking lightly as he re-gloved his hand.

“What did you expect a dragon to be, cold?” She couldn’t help but ask. Dragons were fire made flesh.

Jon Snow just smiled at her, his mouth pulled up crookedly, making his face look less solemn and more rakish, as if they were sharing a joke.

She had never talked with another ruler before, perhaps they were. _Beautiful beasts,_ he called them and she looked him in the eye.

“They are not beasts to me. No matter how big they get, how terrifying to everyone else, they are my children,” Dany said. She wanted him to understand. Tyrion had said the boy traveled with a direwolf companion, so perhaps he of all people might know what it was to love something others feared.

“I meant no offence, your grace. From what I have seen, there are monsters born into this world with human parents and I don’t speak of your dragons,” He smiled and it felt kind, like the warmth of the sun or the brush of fire over her skin.

She wondered if he tasted like flames.

~

The queen had fallen asleep in her bed, the milky expanse of her back bared to him. He could feel the pull of the scratches on his back and see the soft indent of his fingers in the white skin of her hips.

He slipped into Ghost and hunted in the Godswood and gently brushed himself against Sansa who sat beneath the Heart tree. She smiled with a soft, _hello Jon,_ before continuing her stitching. 

Like the flapping wings of a crow, Jon slipped into Ice who was far out to North. He dipped low into the surf to clear the dirt from his scales and shook out his neck which had Jon laughing, the sound Ice released sounding like the dragon equivalent. He would not risk men for a venture that might not work.

Finding a small group of wights was difficult but he finally spotted a small gathering of them dressed as wildlings, marching through the forest. One was lagging behind, its leg missing. Ice was quick as a bird, Jon guiding his movements, swooping down with talons outstretched and crushed the wight in a grip so tight all it could do was croak with its half-decayed jaw.

Proof. Ice let out a roar of triumph and Jon faded from his mind.

When he came back to himself, he hesitated. He had stretched himself thin tonight but the idea remained rooted in his mind, had been there from the moment he had seen the three dragons. Their numbers were not even, but if he were to _take_ a dragon--

Jon rolled over watched Daenerys sleep. She looked so young there, hair unbraided and body not laced into her straight-backed outfits fit for a conqueror. He prayed to the gods she would stay with them and when the time came to declare for the North.

He could not bare to see her face as he stole one of her children from her.

~

Ice hated the South. He was forced to travel at night when it was coolest and sink into ponds and rocky overhangs during the day. Jon could feel trickles of water over his whole body even with Ice miles away.

The blonde queen was frightened at the wight but even he could see the calculating gleam in her eye. Sansa had learned at her heel and that was enough of a warning for Jon.

She would not be sending her troops.

~

_Not a Stark, never a Stark, never a bastard, lies, lies, lies,_ Jon thought followed by _Dany will kill me for this._

Ice crooned to him and Jon felt hesitant to run his hand down his scales. A Targaryen. A dragonlord, like his aunt, _like his aunt._

He mounted Ice.

~

Jon had been her equal is so many things, but not this, never this.

She was the last Targaryen. And then there was Jon.

Jon who had a claim, a good one, and proof of his legitimacy and it wouldn’t matter how many armies she had collected or battles she had won, the lords would side with Jon because he was a man.

Dany felt angry and betrayed and alone, even when she should have felt joy. _Jon had not known,_ she argued, _he did not keep this from her but shared it, he wishes to rule besides you not before you. She knows Jon Sn-- No. She knows Jon Targaryen,_ She thought.

And then she met his dragon, twice the size of her smallest and with wings that could block out the sun. Her scales reflect light like the snow and when she roars it seems to shake the clouds.

She feels for the first time, as if she has met her equal, a counterbalance, the Ice to her Fire.

~

Tyrion put little stock into Northern myths, but watching Jon Snow bring down hail storms which turned the wights into dust was as improbable as his brother bringing his sister’s army with him to the Wall.

But Tyrion was quickly learning impossible was not a word that was spoken now seeing as they had four dragons, one which spewed ice, and Jamie had killed their sister and promised the Golden Company a small fortune to follow him down the Kingsroad.

_I’m asking for a dragon of my own,_ Tyrion thought as he watched the battlements rise, the trenches being dug and the huge ice wall created by Jon’s dragon. _If I survive this._

~

Sansa’s trap pots planted in the ground along the beginning stretch of battlefield give way under the feet of the first wights and from there, the flaming arrows devoured the first wave. From their perch, the dragons lit the trebuchets which were mounted atop the Wall. Giants shot huge arrows into the swarming mass climbing the wall and with a call, the blade was released and it cut through the bodies like butter.

Oil was dropped and the wights went up like matches, burning so brightly the Wall shined as if hit by the sun. The dragons, placed at intervals along the Wall, breath down fire in waves and all could hear the screaming and smell the stench of burnt flesh.

Free Folk wearing harnesses swung from the wall with lit arrows and dragonglass spears. Few fell, some were ripped from their harnesses, but most come up with fire in their eyes and blood on their clothes.

Viserion was shot from the sky and Dany left her post. Jon followed. The King watched.

At the base of the Wall, the door burst inward under the weight of thousands of bodies.

~

The King fell and shattered like glass.

Ghost stood behind him, mouth bloody, and Ice cried from where he had fallen mid-battle. Blue blood stained his hind leg and Jon prays dragons are not horses, and that legs heal and don’t spell a death sentence.

The closer he got, the more Ice sounded like he was whining. Jon laughed into the air, surrounded on all sides by the bodies of the dead and those who fought them.

~

The crown is heavy on his head but at night when the winds blow cold in Winterfell or warm in Dragonstone, he slips into Ice’s mind for a few hours.

Dragon’s have not masters, nor follow laws. Ice flies where he wishes, and hunts what he will, and frightens who he must. Jon follows passively, feeling the stretch of his wings as they collect the water which will dew the grass come morning, and gently flexes the muscles of his legs to feel for the strain of the wound long since healed.

Sansa calls him a Stark, Dany a Targaryen, and he loves them both desperately for it, but he had been a Snow his whole life and while his children will not have his name, he often thought of the boy who found a dragon sleeping along the shore.

That night he dreams of a daughter who has his dark hair flying atop Ice.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out on tumblr @ whimper-soldier.
> 
> If you want to talk about any liberties taken (there were a lot) hit me up!


End file.
